


the face we show the sky

by rabbitprint



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/F, Female Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Llymlaen, Religious Beliefs, Roegadyn (Final Fantasy XIV), Roegadyn Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Shyness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:47:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27154048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabbitprint/pseuds/rabbitprint
Summary: Spoilers for ARR MSQ, set shortly after Leviathan, F!WoL/Yugiri.It is shortly after Leviathan's quelling when the Warrior discovers Yugiri in the lower reaches of Limsa Lominsa, down near the ferry docks.
Relationships: Yugiri Mistwalker/Warrior of Light
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	the face we show the sky

**Author's Note:**

> _Prompt from anonymous: "a Lominsan warrior who is deeply devoted to Llymlaen falls in love with Yugiri, who left her home beneath the sea behind."_

It is shortly after Leviathan's quelling when the Warrior discovers Yugiri in the lower reaches of Limsa Lominsa, down near the ferry docks. The other woman's presence is startling, like the appearance of an unexplained cache of gunpowder in one's bedding. She stands poised at the bottom of one of the dock stairwells, where steps of white stone shear into the sea. Her hood is draped heavily around her head, pleating around the shape of what all the Scions have assumed are horns, to match the scaled line of her tail.   
  
She is looking at the waters.  
  
It during the hour of the Warrior's morning devotions: the sixth bell, when the sun sulks like the rest of Limsa Lominsa's drunkards, hoping to bury itself in its covers for another round of sleeping off its stupor. The Warrior is not among them. She had cut off her own ale early the night before -- as always -- and had roused herself sluggishly out of her bed when the time came, operating on a bleary sense of duty. In the days before the Scions, when she had managed to keep an apartment in Mist, she had gone to the beach directly with the dawn. In Limsa Lominsa, the walk down to Fisherman's Bottom feels longer; she must keep herself from falling off various bridges and colliding with merchants about their business, shuffling supplies from the Upper Decks all the way down to the Lower.   
  
Most of the city's dock stairwells are sensible, built to balance between the highest and lowest points in the tide. The one that the Warrior frequents -- and that Yugiri has discovered -- was fashioned by a drunkard. It is low enough that at least one of its steps is always submerged, drinking in the ocean's tides, and that is exactly what gives it such value.   
  
Luckily enough, the Warrior catches herself before she alerts Yugiri to her presence. Shuffling backwards hastily, she braces a hand on the nearest streetlamp for support, and peers around the brass pole.  
  
Llymlaen smiles upon her fortunes; Yugiri does not give any sign that she is no longer alone. Instead, the woman crouches down cautiously on the step nearest to the rippling waves, making certain to steady her balance.  
  
Then -- carefully, so as not to overtip herself and go headlong into the tide -- Yugiri pulls off her glove and extends her slender, bared fingers reverently into the water.   
  
In the taverns of Limsa Lominsa, gossip flows freely of other lands. From the Far East, there are rumors of au ra who have never allowed the sun to touch their bodies, for to do so is a grave sin. Such stories have always brought laughter, of course, along with numerous crude jokes -- _the best sins are performed in the dark,_ many of them crow -- but the Warrior has never joined in. She has always accepted that she might never see Yugiri's features.   
  
But all this changes with Yugiri's next actions. The woman holds herself unmoving for several moments, as if transfixed by some vision in the depths. Then, she reaches up with her other hand to trace her fingers lightly across her mask and hood before pulling both halves of the covering off.   
  
Golden scales gleam beneath the still-kindling dawn. Yugiri's dark hair spills down upon her shoulders, loose strands sticking out from the braids and ties which had been necessary to keep the whole length from simply tangling up at the back of her neck in an itchy, unwieldy mess.   
  
Even disheveled, she is still radiant. It is the same sort of untouchable beauty as a sword forged by a master blacksmith, hung upon a wall to serve as both art and threat, and meant for finer people than the Warrior.  
  
In one smooth motion, Yugiri lifts her ocean-wet hand, and streaks her dripping fingers across her brow.  
  
She remains like that for another few heartbeats, blinking away the drops that kiss their way down her skin -- glistening rivulets laced with the salt of the sea -- and then begins to tie her mask back into place.  
  
This is enough cue for the Warrior to back away, hastening herself into a turn of the passageways before the au ra can accidentally run into her on the way out. Even that feels like poor concealment. Awkwardly, she leans against the wall with as much nonchalance as she can fake, and then crosses her arms, unfolding and refolding them as she tries to decide which pose conveys the most idleness. Like the whispers of a desert sinkhole -- sands rushing in relentlessly until the victim is buried alive -- she thinks she can hear Yugiri's soft footsteps coming closer, deceptively gentle as they usher in an inescapable doom.   
  
Then they are gone, and the Warrior finds herself trying to remember how to breathe once more.   
  
Her thoughts refuse to quiet afterwards. Even as she kneels for her turn to pay homage to the sea, all the Warrior can think about is the graceful curves of Yugiri's features. The arches of her horns.   
  
Her reverence when she had touched the ocean, as if it had been a substance more precious than gold.  
  
When the Warrior dips her own hand into the waves, she imagines she can feel the warmth of the other woman's hand still there, lingering in the sun-touched waters.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Yugiri is absent the next morning.  
  
The Warrior exhales slowly as she considers the empty stairwell, not certain if she feels relieved or regretful.

  
  


* * *

  
  
There are reasons enough for the Warrior to keep her prayers to the privacy of her inn room. Such devotions to Llymlaen are not often observed, not even among sailors who have spent over half their lives without solid ground beneath their feet. The lapse does not stem from lack of faith, but practicality. The ocean is always around them; they do not need to make a particular effort to reach it, not when each morning brings in a fresh tide. It is not difficult to haul up a bucket of water still tickled white with foam, cupping a handful in your palm and whispering a plea to it before scattering the drops to the wind.  
  
But -- even knowing the convenience of a water pitcher and an open window -- the Warrior drags herself out anyway. She had always been taught to speak her prayers diligently with the dawn; there is no reason to stop now. By doing so, Llymlaen can take the poisons of the previous day into Her ocean, and guide the new sun's path under Her watchful eye. Llymlaen's mark is in the Anchor Yard, free for all to visit, but sailors too often hold their trysts there, nodding appreciatively to the stone afterwards in thanks -- as if Llymlaen had guided their hand between a pair of breeches with the same surety as steering a ship's helm.  
  
The Warrior has never felt right there, regardless of any other company present. She is no sailor -- through no single fault save the cumulation of many smaller ones, which nevertheless have congealed to define her.   
  
It is difficult to be native-born to Limsa Lominsa, and not have a ship in your blood. Even more to be a roegadyn, when it is expected that _all_ roegadyn are sailors -- all roegadyn, all hyur, all who walk beneath the city's arches and spin a gil upon its tables. Every time the Warrior admits that she lacks that knowledge, she can see the disdain in the eyes of both travelers and residents alike. Instead, she is a landbound adventurer. Underneath their gazes, she can feel the implication: that it is not respectable, honest work, like fishing. Even piracy would be a step up.  
  
It separates her, like a line of infidelity. She has not given herself fully to the sea, and so it does not give itself back to her.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Four more mornings go by before Yugiri appears again. By then, the Warrior has already begun to dismiss the matter as mere chance, a potential hallucination brought on by brushing too close to Leviathan's aether.  
  
When she rounds the corner -- yawning copiously, all her teeth on display to the sky -- she nearly chokes on her own spit as she spots the other woman.   
  
By habit, the Warrior is not a loud person -- or rather, she _attempts_ not to be, with her greataxe so often creaking in its moorings, the rings on her belt clattering against her tassets. Those armaments are back in her inn room, but her boots are solid enough to kick Titan in the knee without shattering her foot in the process, and she swallows down a curse as she scrambles to hide.  
  
She knows better than to think that Yugiri is waiting for her, specifically. Such imagination would stretch all rationality. No -- Yugiri is there for the same reason that the Warrior herself has picked that spot. There are not many places where Limsa Lominsa's walkways dip this close to the water without becoming beslimed with algae and mildew, making the stones dangerously slippery. Countless sailors have gone over the side of the city with the same disastrous results as being pitched off their ships.   
  
Yugiri's hood is already off this time. Her face is exposed, though her hair and skin does not seem wet; she merely regards the waters which lap rhythmically at the stones below, lost in private consideration.  
  
Yet -- even as the Warrior hesitates, wondering if it would be better to leave entirely and apologize to Llymlaen from the safety of the Mizzenmast Inn -- Yugiri lifts her head resolutely.   
  
"Come out." Her voice is calm, and not angered. Like everything else about the woman, its delivery comes with the precise amount of effort needed to carry across the distance. There is no wasted energy. "It is all right. Please, reveal yourself."  
  
Feeling exactly like a peeper caught in the act, the Warrior grimaces and steps gingerly into view. "I wasn't spying," she blurts, which feels all the more incriminating for actually _saying_ it. "I mean -- t'wasn't to make you feel watched. I just -- I visit here, in the mornings. I didn't want to intrude."  
  
But Yugiri's expression does not darken; if anything, it merely softens, her mouth making a faint smile. "So it _is_ you." She inclines her head by way of explanation. "You do not have your axe with you. It changes your tread, somewhat."  
  
Flustered, the Warrior suffers through a nod. A wittier woman would already have a jest prepared. Instead, it is both strangely flattering that Yugiri took note of such a detail, while equally mortifying in regards to the rest of the observation.   
  
Whenever she is dressed fully in her armor, the Warrior thinks bleakly, she must tromp about like a buffalo.   
  
For lack of anything more clever to say, she clears her throat and gestures authoritatively at the ocean, drawing her finger along the walkway's path as it runs back from the dock stairwell. "This's a good spot. The waters near the docks themselves aren't as clean. There's runoff from the forges on the other side, and the sailors are careless with their filth. The currents here bypass all that. They're the best."  
  
Solemnly, Yugiri absorbs her verdict with a slow nod, as if the Warrior were the Admiral herself. "I understand. I am grateful for the knowledge. It is... important to me to stay connected with the sea, and I know little yet of Eorzea's ways."  
  
Each word of the woman's reply invites another inquiry. All the Warrior can do is wet her lips. She wants to ask suddenly how much Yugiri knows of Llymlaen's traditions -- if Yugiri, perhaps, follows Llymlaen as well, even though the likelihood of the Twelve having spread to Doma is slim.  
  
"Were your family sailors?" That much, at least, is a typical enough question for Limsa Lominsa. It is safe. "Did you fish?"  
  
The humor which flickers across Yugiri's expression is a bemused one, creasing her eyes -- which are not completely green, the Warrior realizes suddenly, struggling not to become distracted by pinpointing the exact moment when they shift to brown. "My home was there. Or, rather -- it lay underneath."   
  
With that, the woman turns aside, back towards the sea's restless turmoil; in the sudden imbalance of emotions in her face, it is sorrow which wins out. "Protected within its grasp, I would go to sleep each night hearing the currents eternally rumble around me. Like blood rushing through the veins of a giant, never ceasing. When I rose from the waters, and first heard the sound of the waves crashing against the shore," she continues wistfully, "I could not conceive that this was the same element which had been with me all my life -- as if, perceived by surface-dwellers, it had cloaked itself in noise and fury for its own protection. The face it shows the sky is merely a mask, like my own, when beneath beats its secret heart."  
  
The careless ease by which Yugiri has offered such insight stands like a mountain against the Warrior's clumsiness. It is her turn to look down, wishing for the reassurance of her axe after all, if only for something familiar to clutch. She does not know what to say; even opening her mouth feels like a poor effort. "It sounds... amazing. Incredible."  
  
It is the smallest of compliments, but the attempt earns her a flicker of a grateful smile from Yugiri's direction. "Mayhap someday, you will have the gift of knowing it." She inhales sharply, but only for the purposes of a sigh and a shrug; even that is graceful, her shoulders rolling easily like a dancer. "In Sui-no-Sato, we venerate Soko-watatsumi among our _kami_ , but here, the one who is honored is Llymlaen. As a guest in Her realm, I do not know yet how best to approach Her to pay my respects. I should learn of Her customs while I am here, lest I bring both disapproval and ill luck upon Doma's efforts." She tries to muster a smile, fails, and then makes a half-hearted laugh, nearly swallowed into the roof of her mouth. "It is strange, is it not? I stand in a great city filled with those who live and perish by the sea's will... and yet, it feels as if it is the ocean itself which has swum away from me."  
  
An abrupt rush of sympathy washes away all common sense from the Warrior's thoughts. It frees her tongue like a catapult trigger, launching her into speech before she can halt herself.  
  
"Would you," she begins -- and fumbles instantly, like swinging her axe one-handed around the weakest point of her grip and feeling it wobble on its path. Pitfalls of rudeness open up around her, just waiting for her to stumble into them. Every part of her feels like an eager pup scrambling to lay its muddy paws on the silk of Yugiri's formal politeness.   
  
She winces even as she makes herself finish the question. "Would you... like me to tell you about Her?"  
  
As soon as she voices the last syllable, the Warrior holds her breath, reminding herself to prepare for a reasonable rejection. All her organs already feel as if they are curling into themselves from shame. Her courage had never faltered when she had faced down Titan, Leviathan, Ultima Weapon -- and yet, the quiet strength of this single au ra leaves her cringing into her own bones. Garuda's winds are powerless compared to the chaotic tumult of what she suddenly yearns for Yugiri to see her as: something, some _one_ , who is strong and clever and dashing, a _true_ Warrior of Light. Someone with the eloquence of a bard. Not a fumbling axe-wielder who nearly fell down on her arse the first time she tried to cleave a boulder.  
  
She is not ashamed of her devotion for Llymlaen -- she could never _be_ ashamed -- but she is, suddenly, afraid of the way that she _shows_ it. That her enthusiasm is grating. That she is an embarrassment to the Twelve.   
  
That there is something subpar about the way that she loves, just like the way she has always lived.   
  
Terror coils in her belly, sickening her nerves -- but before it can devour her the rest of the way, Yugiri simply blinks and performs a short, eager nod.  
  
"I would," the woman declares, giving the ocean a final glance before offering a smile up, the expression deepening into an unrestrained warmth. "I believe there would be no one better than yourself, Warrior of Light."  
  



End file.
